To see the proud poise of sweet Prue's averted head, and the tender look in her eyes when George is near, and the surge of the mighty chest and the tremble of the strong man's hand at the sound of her light footfall, is more enthralling than any written romance, old or new. In regard to these latter, I began, at this time, to contrive schemes and to plot plots for bringing them together—to bridge over the difficulty which separated them, for, being happy, I would fain see them happy also. Now, how I succeeded in this self-imposed task, the reader (if he trouble to read far enough) shall see for himself. "George," said I, on a certain Saturday morning, as I washed the grime from my face and hands, "are you going to the Fair this afternoon?" "No, Peter, I aren't." "But Prudence is going," said I, drying myself vigorously upon the towel. "And how," inquired the smith, bending in turn above the bucket in which we performed our ablutions, "and how might you know that, Peter?" "Because she told me so." "Told you so, did she?" said George, and immediately plunged his head into the bucket. "She did," I answered. "And supposin'," said George, coming up very red in the face, and with the water streaming from his sodden curls, "supposin' she is goin' to the Fair, what's that to me? I don't care wheer she comes, no, nor wheer she goes, neither!" and he shook the water from him as a dog might. "Are you quite sure, George?" "Ah! sartin sure. I've been sure of it now ever since she called me—" "Pooh, nonsense, man! she didn't mean it—women—especially young ones—often say things they do not mean—at least, so I am given to understand." "Ay, but she did mean it," said George, frowning and nodding his head; "but it ain't that, Peter, no, it aren't that, it's the knowin' as she spoke truth when she called me 'coward,' and despisin' me for it in 'er heart, that's wheer it is, Peter." "Nevertheless, I'm sure she never meant it, George." "Then let 'er come and tell me so." "I don't think she'll do that," said I. "No more do I, Peter." Saying which, he fell to work with the towel even as I had done. "George," said I after a silence. "Well, Peter?" "Has it ever struck you that Prudence is an uncommonly handsome girl?" "To be sure it 'as, Peter—I were blind else." "And that other men may see this too?" "Well, Peter?" "And some one—even tell her so?" His answer was a long time coming, but come it did at last: "Well, Peter?" "And—ask her to marry him, George?" This time he was silent so long that I had tied my neckerchief and drawn on my coat ere he spoke, very heavily and slowly, and without looking at me. "Why, then, Peter, let 'im. I've told 'ee afore, I don't care wheer she comes nor wheer she goes, she bean't nothin' to me no more, nor I to she. If so be some man 'as a mind to ax 'er for 'isself, all open an' aboveboard, I say again—let 'im. And now, let's talk o' summat else."